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Monterey Bay Aquarium
almost home

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Janaina Medeiros
Today's Document
Cosimo Galluzzi
Claire Keane

roma★

ellievsbear

if i look back, i am lost
h
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
AnasAbdin
hello vonnie
Misplaced Lens Cap

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$LAYYYTER
Sade Olutola

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seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Brazil
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seen from Peru
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seen from United States
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@kodzukii
masterlist 𐙚 about me ♡ recent
look at my doctors dawg i am such a fucking lesbian
Im sorry that I choose my favs with my pussy and not my moral compass. Wish I could be as boring as the rest of you
i Really love when two characters are really quite similar but in such a way that they just hate eachother onsight.. dog barking at a mirror type beef
it's them your honor
Leon <3
the night shift exchange program | j.a.
professional yearner!jack abbot x nurse!reader
synopsis: jack doesn't realize how close you are to the day shift residents until they start stealing you from him. but he is definitely not jealous, no matter what the rest of the night shift thinks... - or - the 5 times day shift covers nights and the 1 you're asked to cover days
contains: jack is down BAD, santos/langdon twins propaganda, bsf samira mohan AND bsf night shift crew, me pushing my mowalsh agenda, jack has adopted the pittlings at this point, a l o t of blurred lines between people, age gap (reader is in her 20's), suggestive at times, everyone calls reader sweets, no use of y/n, this part is LONG it grew a mind of it's own (15.7k words i'm so sorry)
note: FIRST, happy s2 finale day!!! idk what i'm gonna do with myself but I have two other seperate fics in my drafts ready to post at the drop of a hat depending on how tonight goes -now, most importantly, i'm SO serious when i say i read every single comment, tag, and reblog on part 1 a million times over, i love every single one of you that read it and showing it love with my whole entire heart :') -this part when through soooooo many changes, it took forever for me to be happy with it and i hope it lives up to the unreasonably high standards i've set for it, there's so many jack x sweets moments I removed from this I might just put them in their own little world of mini fics at this point maybe? -this also STILL isn't the part i orginally set out to write so there is at least one more addition to the jack x sweets universe if anyone's interested -ENJOY <3 technically part 2 to this fic but they're both completely standalone, you don't have to read one to get the other
dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
1. Cherry Limeade Sweet Tea
The night shift could be…territorial. And that was putting it nicely.
It was just different from days. You had to be hardwired a certain way to make it through full moons and haunting hours and eerie mornings when the world was deciding what it was going to be that day. There was a certain attitude, a very particular personality, you needed to have in order to stay sane. It definitely wasn’t for the faint of heart.
The residents tended not to acknowledge that until they actually experienced it firsthand. Shen and Ellis, who had been some of the only ones to master it and seen others crash and burn, called it trial by fire. Crus, who’d proven himself to be a fast learner, was more optimistic, said they just needed to keep an open mind. Jack thought they were mostly just overconfident. The constant buzz of the day shift, the ever present thrum of consistent questions, was absolutely nothing like the unpredictable chaos of the night shift. Most residents didn’t understand that.
Dr. Samira Mohan, to your incredible delight, was one of the ones who thrived during the night.
please
Jack Abbot x senior resident!reader
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
Under the Apple Trees (Dennis Whitaker x f!reader)
Pairing: Dennis Whitaker x first love!reader
Warnings: Childhood friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, Dennis is a little pathetic oops, maybe a curse word or two, trauma incident, gsw to the abdomen, big dogs, misunderstandings, reader is kind of an idiot, but so is Dennis, random names I made up for Dennis' brothers (George and Tucker), use of em dashes oooooo spooky, slightly proofread, typos
Summary: Dennis Whitaker makes a decision that changes the course of your lives. Will he be able to fix the heartbreak he's caused? Or will misunderstandings cost him his chance with you? Can you forgive him for all he's done? Does the title "childhood best friend" and "first love" still mean something to you?
WC: 14.9k+
AN: I've had this sitting in my drafts for months and originally wanted this to be the first piece that I publish on Tumblr, but felt like it needed some more work. It's the longest fic I've ever written and did not want to break it into multiple parts like I had originally planned, so instead, I threw everything into one big fic! Hope y'all enjoy and as always, I am open to feedback and questions! Love y'all!
Here is a little mood board that I made for this story!
The Sound Between Us
Summary: You’ve been admiring Robert from afar since you were kids, but always kept your distance because of your powers. Can a pair of intruders change everything?
Words: 4,042
Pairing: Robert Robertson III x afab!reader
Warning(s): Mild harm to the reader, slander against the reader mentioned
You tell yourself you’re not staring at Robert.
You fail spectacularly.
OHHHH MY FUCKING GOD :(((( this was so beautiful
Save me Robert Robertson III from Dispatch (2025)
Holy shit, you didn’t think you’d meet a real Y/N in the wild until a new recruit joined the team.
“She just said she’s 4’11 to L.T,” Johnny whispers to you as he stood besides you, staring at the recruit while she toyed with the front ends of her hair, bashing her lashes and (trying to) engage in a conversation with Simon.
Simon stood there, glaring down at her; and even though you can’t see his expression, you can tell he was clearly bothered by the way his shoulders tensed and how he hid his hands in his pockets.
“I thought front layers weren’t allowed…” you murmured to Johnny. Slowly, you reached up to pat your front layers, which was slicked back with who knows how much gel was needed.
He snorts in response and gives you a side eye, “yeah— but that’s ‘cus Laswell just hasn’t seen her yet,” he replies before going back to staring at the two.
You’d think this was a pick me… By definition, it is. But no, this character was far more worse than that. Too bad there isn’t a CEO to coddle her and throw anyone out if they looked at her funny. “How’d she even pass basic training?” you whisper in awe, watching as she struggles to grab a disposable cup from one of the higher cabinets.
Simon stood besides her, watching as she stood on her tippy toes and struggled to reach before he slowly turns around to face you and Johnny with a look of: ‘is she dead serious right now’.
“bloody ‘ell, mate! Help the lass!” Johnny teases with a grin, stuffing his hands in his jeans while giving Simon a smirk.
Simon just stared blankly at Johnny before slowly turning back to the girl. He has yet spoken to her— and you’re positively sure that he won’t be speaking to her any time soon. “Please, Lieutenant, can you grab this for me?” the girl asks with a pout. He doesn’t respond and instead, takes a step back and opens up a lower cabinets before pointing at the several disposable cups in there.
Just before you or Johnny could react, Kyle steps into the room with a heavy sigh, “have y’ seen where Laswell put the new shipments? For the armory,” he asks, leaning against the doorway.
Johnny looks over at his friend and briefly nods before walking out with him. Just as you were about to follow, the woman says something that made you raise an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
Because apparently, the real Y/N never seems to know Kyle.
part two bc i love writing about y/n (i hope her ceo bf doesn’t find me)
Kyle as the mob’s rising star and golden child, where you’re an undercover cop that’s infiltrated the organization’s ranks. He figures you out pretty quickly, but you’re more mouse than rat in his eyes, so he keeps your identity to himself and lets you prod tidbits of information out of him. Dangling meeting locations and shipment schedules in front of you, he makes himself out to be a valuable target for you to get close to. And the two of you do get close.
There’s nothing Kyle enjoys more than watching your internal struggle when you’re with him—the guilt and sense of duty and desire clashing behind your see-through facade. When you quietly suggest staying in bed instead of joining tonight’s meeting at the docks, he pretends to debate it until you almost outright tell him about the raid that’s going to happen. He’s never been more in love.
The boss manages to evade arrest that night, but the family realizes that there’s a traitor in their midst. Most of the higher-ups have had suspicions of a rat for a while, but Kyle so far has been deflecting their efforts to find the traitor and redirecting them elsewhere. With this latest incident, though, he knows it’s time to take more drastic action.
Cigarettes and Cards
The underground base hummed with a low, constant vibration—generators, air scrubbers, distant footsteps echoing through reinforced corridors. The place smelled of cold concrete, recycled air, oil, and the faint sting of gun lubricant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in a tired, grey glow.
Y/n hissed quietly. “Oh, fuck…”
She bit her lip and glared down at the mission summary on the table. A thin line of red welled up where the paper had snapped across her finger. Just a sting. Nothing compared to what she’d seen topside.
Ryder leaned sideways in his chair, eyes tracking her hand. “You alright there, killer?”
“I’ll live.” She flicked her hand like she could shake the sting off.
“Yeah, well, don’t put alcohol on it. Or you’ll scream like last time.” Ryder grinned.
“Oh, shut up.” Y/n shoved his shoulder lightly, smirking.
Boots scraped against concrete as another figure sat down at the far end of the table, sliding a stack of classified folders in front of him. The air seemed to shift—less noise, more focus.
Y/n lifted her eyes. “Sergeant.”
Ryder immediately bolted upright and saluted. “Sergeant Russ.” He elbowed Y/n so hard her chair creaked.
Keegan didn’t look up from the intel maps he was sorting through.
“At ease,” he muttered—calm, bored, and completely uninterested in the dramatics.
Ryder dropped back into his chair with exaggerated relief.
Y/n ignored them both and returned to the mission report—the same one that had sliced her fingertip. They had blown the supply convoy yesterday, and most of it had gone up exactly like planned. Except for the two trucks that managed to break through the first set of explosives.
Those two had vanished into the dust and smoke.
Into Federation territory.
Y/n hated that.
“Why didn’t you salute him?” Ryder whispered, leaning so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“Because he told me not to bother.” She kept reading, scanning the ammunition expenditure. They’d gone through way too many rounds to still lose vehicles.
Ryder blinked at her. “He told you that?”
“Yeah.”
Ryder snorted loudly. “Bullshit. I’ve never heard him talk to anyone except Riley.”
Y/n glanced up at Keegan, hoping for the smallest nod of confirmation. Nothing. He didn’t even flick an eye upward. Like they were ghosts in the same room as him.
It bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
“He really did,” she insisted.
“Sure he did.” Ryder clapped her on the back, chuckling. “Next you’ll tell me he reads you bedtime stories.”
Y/n rolled her eyes. “He talks to me.”
That actually made Ryder laugh—an honest, loud one that echoed in the concrete room. Across the table, Keegan let out the faintest exhale through his nose. Not a laugh—more like a sound of restrained patience. The only indication he was aware of them at all.
Ryder stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m grabbing chow. You coming, or you wanna sit in silence with Sergeant Sunshine here?”
Y/n found her eyes drifting to Keegan again. The man was a statue—quiet, unreadable, flipping through intel like the world depended on it. Which, technically, it did.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t say a word.
Typical.
She sighed, stood, and shoved her hands into her pockets. “Yeah… I’ll come with you. There’s nothing else for me to do anyway.”
They walked side by side toward the corridor, boots tapping in rhythm on the cool concrete floor. Y/n cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the table they’d left behind. Keegan hadn’t moved, still hunched slightly over the paperwork, shadows cutting sharp lines across his face under the fluorescent lights.
For a moment, she wondered if he even realized she’d been there.
But just as she turned to follow Ryder out, Keegan spoke—low, barely more than a breath.
“You left your report.”
Y/n froze.
He still didn’t look at her, just tapped a gloved finger on the page she’d abandoned.
She swallowed.
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
He gave the smallest nod. Nothing more.
She jogged back, grabbed the paper, and then hurried to catch up with Ryder in the hallway.
Behind her, Keegan had already returned to silence.
Ryder slowed until Y/n caught up with him, brows furrowed in confusion.
“When did he tell you that you didn’t have to salute him?” he asked, tilting his head like he genuinely couldn’t imagine such a scenario.
Y/n’s stomach twisted strangely—not nerves exactly, but something unsettled. She shrugged.
“Uh… doesn’t matter.”
“Nah, girl, come on.” Ryder nudged her ribs with an elbow. “If he said that to you, then maybe I can get away with skipping a few salutes myself.” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.
Y/n snorted under her breath. “I don’t think it works like that. I just… know him, I guess? We talk sometimes. I work late. His office is right by mine.”
Ryder blinked like he was trying to imagine such a thing. “I wanna see that. Man hardly says two words unless it’s an order. Guy’s a ghost even when he’s standing right next to you.”
“He calls me doll and sweetheart,” Y/n said casually.
Ryder’s boots scraped to a stop. “Really?”
He eyed her like she’d just told him she’d befriended a wild bear.
“You’re not one all the time,” he added dryly.
Y/n froze mid-step. Slowly turned. Hands on hips.
“Take that back.”
Ryder only grinned, wide and unrepentant, before ruffling her hair like she was a kid sister.
She smacked his arm away, straightening her hair with an irritated huff. “I should knock you out for that.”
“It was a joke!” he protested, palms up. “Alright, alright—you wanna be mad? Race you to the mess.”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before Y/n sprinted forward.
Boots hammered against the concrete flooring, the air in the hallway rushing past her ears. The signs for MEDICAL, ARMORY, and MESS HALL blurred by as she cut corners at full speed. Ryder thundered after her somewhere behind.
They were neck-and-neck until she rounded a blind turn and nearly plowed straight into a cluster of privates. She skidded to slow, muttering a quick apology as she dodged around them.
Ryder didn’t bother with finesse. He grabbed her collar, yanked her backward, and barreled past her with a triumphant shout.
“Cheater!” she yelled, pushing herself up and surging after him.
She barely got three steps before a hand closed around her elbow—firm, controlled, unmistakably intentional.
Before she could react, she was pulled sideways into a side room off the hall. The door clicked shut behind her. The motion sensor lights flicked on with a soft buzz.
Her heart jumped—but the second she saw who it was, she relaxed.
“Keegan!” She flashed him a breathless grin. “Sorry—kinda in the middle of something.”
The sergeant stood with his arms crossed over his chest, posture solid and unreadable. His mask muted whatever expression he might’ve worn, but his tone made up for it—quiet, steady, and definitely not amused.
“Why are you running through base like a hurricane?” His voice was low, with that calm edge he always had when he was calling someone out without raising his tone.
Y/n bounced slightly on her heels, still riding the adrenaline.
“Racing Ryder,” she explained. “Pretty sure he’s won by now.”
Keegan stared at her for a beat. Not angry—just assessing her like she was a malfunctioning piece of equipment that needed recalibration. The silence stretched, heavy and typical.
The room felt smaller than it had a moment ago, the concrete walls pulling in closer, shadows dulling the fluorescent lights overhead. Y/n’s pulse was still elevated from running, but now a different kind of tension crept beneath her skin—uneasy, heavy.
Keegan’s posture was off. Not dramatically, not something the average soldier would even notice. But Y/n had spent enough late nights in adjoining offices and enough quiet briefings and after-action reports with him to recognize the difference.
His arms were still folded, but his shoulders weren’t loose. They were locked tight, rigid under his gear. His jaw shifted once, a tiny tic she’d never seen from him. Something was eating at him.
“You okay, Keegan?” she asked softly.
Her voice echoed faintly in the concrete room, carried on the hum of the ventilation system. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air between them.
He didn’t answer right away.
He looked at her—finally—but it wasn’t the steady, unreadable look she was used to. His eyes flickered, unsettled, like he was holding two thoughts and neither were something he wanted to say out loud.
“I’m fine.” The words were too quick, clipped. He shook his head once, eyes darting to the door as if he suddenly couldn’t stand being in the room. “Yeah… yeah, sweetheart. You just go play with your friends now.”
He said it too sharply.
Too dismissive.
Too unlike him.
Before she could respond, he stepped past her, hand brushing the door latch. He didn’t look back. The door opened, spilling the colder corridor air into the room, and he walked out with long, unhurried strides—the kind that looked controlled but felt like retreat.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Y/n stood frozen, breath caught halfway in her chest. The silence that followed felt loud.
Keegan Russ had never snapped at her. Ever. Not once. He teased sometimes—dry, deadpan remarks under his breath. He shut down nonsense when it interfered with missions. But he had never dismissed her. Never talked to her like that.
The way his voice had dipped, the faint tremor under the usual calm, the twitch in his jaw…
Something was wrong.
And for the first time since she’d met him, Y/n realized she couldn’t even guess what.
She swallowed, the back of her throat tight, and stepped slowly toward the door. Out in the corridor, she could still hear the faint echoes of boots moving through the underground base. Distant orders. Metallic clinks from the armory. Ryder shouting something far down the hall, clueless and cheerful.
But Keegan’s absence pressed harder than his presence ever had.
Y/n leaned against the wall for a moment, grounding herself against the cold concrete.
What the hell was that?
The hallway outside the small room felt even colder than before—air vent currents whispering along the concrete, carrying the metallic scent of oil and disinfectant. Y/n stepped out slowly, letting the door click shut behind her. Her boots echoed sharp and hollow against the reinforced flooring.
She rubbed her elbow where Keegan had grabbed her, then immediately felt stupid for doing it. It wasn’t like he’d hurt her—just startled her. Still, something about the encounter sat wrong, like grit buried beneath her skin.
She made her way down the corridor toward the mess, passing a few soldiers heading the opposite direction. Most had the same exhausted look—dark circles, stiff posture, dried mud or soot on their boots from time topside. The war never really left anyone here; it followed them down into the bunker like a shadow.
Ryder was waiting just outside the mess-hall doors, leaning against the frame with a smug grin. As soon as he spotted her, he pushed off the wall and gave her shoulder a playful shove.
“Took you long enough! I beat your ass fair and square.”
Y/n forced a smile, the corners of her mouth twitching unconvincingly. “Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your victory.”
He didn’t notice the flatness in her tone at first. Ryder was Ryder—loud, cheerful, always riding the adrenaline leftover from every mission.
Inside, the mess was dim and loud—clattering trays, tired voices, and the hum of industrial refrigerators. The food line smelled like overboiled vegetables and reheated protein powder. Standard military cuisine.
They grabbed trays and moved through the line. Dinner only came in one option tonight: dried-out chicken breast, stringy green beans, and chunky mashed potatoes that looked like they’d been scooped from a bucket.
Ryder dug in the second they hit the table, inhaling his food like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Man, that op was fun as hell,” he said through a mouthful. “Setting those charges? Did you see that second truck flip? God, I wish someone filmed it—it would’ve made a killer highlight reel.”
Y/n pushed her fork into the chicken, then set it back down. The texture—rubbery, powdery—made her throat tighten. The beans looked sad. The potatoes looked worse. Normally she’d shovel it down anyway, but tonight everything felt off. Even swallowing felt like it’d take effort.
Ryder’s fork slowed. He finally looked at her properly.
“You’re awful quiet. What’s up?”
Y/n shrugged, staring at her tray. “Nothing. Someone just… snapped at me. Didn’t like it, I guess.”
Ryder frowned, straightening a little. “Someone? Or someone specific?”
“I said it’s nothing.” She didn’t meet his eyes.
He wanted to pry—she could see it in the way his jaw tightened. But instead, he looked between her untouched food and her expression, then seemed to make a decision.
Without a word, Y/n slid her tray toward him.
He blinked. “You serious?”
She nodded once.
Ryder hesitated. The guilt was visible, but not enough to overcome his appetite. “You’re sure? I mean… I don’t wanna steal your dinner.”
“Go ahead,” she muttered. “Not hungry.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He dug in again, but softer this time, watching her between bites.
After a few minutes, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You wanna do something fun after this? Get your mind off whatever’s chewing on you?”
Y/n exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I… yeah, that’d be good.”
Ryder grinned, the kind of grin that promised trouble. “I got something fun in my barracks. We can take it outside."
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“You’ll love it,” he said, smirking. “Trust me.”
“That makes me trust you even less.”
He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. Wounded. But you’re still coming.”
Y/n shook her head, the shadow of a real smile tugging at her lips.
But even as she followed Ryder out of the mess, her thoughts drifted—pulled like a magnet back to that room, that cold tone, that twitch beneath Keegan’s calm.
Something was wrong with him.
And it had gotten under her skin more than she wanted to admit.
Ryder’s barracks were three corridors down, the two of them moving through the bunker’s dimly lit hallways. The deeper they walked, the colder the air became—underground ventilation pushing a constant draft along the walls. Y/n kept her hands tucked into the sleeves of her uniform, thoughts still tangled around Keegan’s sudden mood swing.
Ryder rambled beside her, hands waving animatedly as he talked about some “surprise” he’d stashed away, but his voice eventually faded into background noise. Y/n’s attention pulled elsewhere—down a side hallway, where movement caught her eye.
A tall figure in familiar gear stepped out of a storage room and toward one of the exits. Keegan.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked like he needed distance from everything.
Y/n stopped mid-step.
Ryder nearly bumped into her. “Whoa—hey, what’s up?”
She tore her eyes from the side hall and looked at him. “I, uh… I need to talk to someone.” She jerked her chin toward the hallway. “If you wait for me outside, I’ll meet you there in a bit.”
Ryder squinted at her. “How long’s this talk gonna take?”
“Don’t know.” She began walking backward, shrugging at him. “Just wait. I’ll find you.”
Before he could argue, she turned and jogged down the side corridor, boots thudding softly against concrete.
Keegan was already halfway up a metal staircase that led to an upper level—one of the access routes to the outside airlocks. The stairwell was narrow, lit by a single flickering bulb overhead, casting sharp shadows across his shoulders.
Y/n slowed, keeping a few steps behind him. She didn’t want to look like she was stalking him… even though she kind of was.
He didn’t look back.
When he reached the top, she waited until he disappeared from the landing before climbing after him, her breath slightly quick from the jog. The upper hallway was even colder, the air smelling faintly of damp earth and pine from the surface.
A heavy door at the end of the hall swung shut with a metallic groan—closing a second too slowly to be anything but recently used.
Y/n hurried toward it and pushed through.
Outside, the air hit her all at once—cooler, fresher, carrying the scent of early evening and diesel fumes from generators hidden in the treeline. The base’s camouflaged fencing loomed in the distance.
But Keegan wasn’t there.
Instead, a small group of soldiers leaned against the concrete wall, smoking and chatting quietly. Their laughter drifted lazily through the crisp air.
One of them noticed her, nodding in greeting. Y/n nodded back, scanning the small courtyard again.
Nothing.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
She slipped back inside, letting the heavy door fall closed behind her. Her boots clicked on the floor as she moved through the hall, frustration settling low in her gut. Losing his trail felt stupidly disappointing.
She wandered down another corridor—this one lined with offices. The overhead lights hummed. Nameplates glinted. None of these belonged to her. Or to him. She knew that. But her feet carried her anyway, mind racing, trying to figure out why Keegan’s mood bothered her so much.
She turned around, heading out of the office hall.
Another door to the outside sat at the end of the next stretch of hallway. A red EXIT sign glowed above it. Y/n hesitated, then pressed the bar.
The door opened to the side of the base—a quieter area, where the trees grew close to the bunker walls, shadowing the perimeter in long strips of shade. The evening light filtered through the branches, cool and blue.
She stepped out, inhaling deeply. She needed the air, needed the clarity.
And then she saw him.
Off in the treeline, just a few yards away, Keegan stood with one shoulder braced against a pine tree. His mask was pulled up to the bridge of his nose, a cigarette glowing faintly between two fingers as he exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke.
He looked… still.
Withdrawn.
Lost in whatever storm was brewing beneath that otherwise unreadable exterior.
Y/n’s breath caught.
She wasn’t sure why she was nervous—but she was.
Keegan didn’t notice her yet.
Or maybe he had—and just wasn’t reacting.
Y/n drew in a slow breath, letting the cool air settle her nerves before she stepped away from the bunker wall and toward the treeline where Keegan stood. Pine needles cushioned her footsteps, muffling the sound, but still she felt strangely loud approaching him—like her presence might shatter whatever quiet space he’d carved out for himself.
He didn’t look up. Not when she neared. Not when she stopped a few feet away. Not even when she shifted her weight, unsure if she was interrupting something he desperately needed.
Keegan just leaned against the tree, shoulders slightly hunched, cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint glow lit the underside of his mask, casting orange shadows across the fabric.
Y/n swallowed. She’d never been a smoker—never liked the taste, the burn, or the smell clinging to clothes. Ryder had been the one to teach her, mostly because she’d once entertained the ridiculous idea that maybe matching one of Keegan’s habits would make him easier to talk to.
It hadn’t.
But it had given her something to reach for now.
“Got another one?” she asked quietly.
Keegan didn’t respond at first. He exhaled a line of smoke that drifted upward through the branches before reaching into the left pocket of his fatigues. Without looking at her, without making a single comment, he pulled out the entire pack and handed it over.
His gloved hand brushed hers briefly—cool, steady, impersonal.
Y/n took the pack and slid a cigarette out with her lips before holding the rest back to him. He accepted it, slipping it into his pocket again, still not saying anything.
She suddenly realized she didn’t have a lighter.
“Can I borrow…?” she started, tapping the unlit cigarette between her fingers.
Keegan finally moved—not much, just enough to dig into another pocket and pull out a battered metal lighter. He handed it to her with a short nod, mask still pulled up above his nose.
She flicked the wheel once. Then again. The flame sparked but died instantly. She tried a third time, her thumb slipping, the cigarette barely catching.
Embarrassment prickled hot under her collar. She could feel his eyes on her now—not mocking, but watching with that quiet, unreadable interest he had whenever someone was struggling with something simple.
The next moment happened fast:
Keegan plucked the cigarette straight from her mouth.
She blinked, startled, lips still parted.
He didn’t even comment. He just placed her cigarette between his own lips—now holding two—and flicked the lighter with an ease that made the flame steady immediately. He lit hers cleanly, took a short drag to make sure it stayed lit, then handed it back to her between two fingers.
Not a word.
Not a hint of annoyance.
Just efficient, practiced movement.
He slid the lighter back into his pocket with a soft metallic click.
Y/n accepted the cigarette and took a small drag—careful this time. Ryder had once convinced her to inhale too deeply, and she’d spent the next ten minutes coughing her lungs out behind the barracks while he laughed his ass off. Her throat still remembered.
The smoke hit her tongue with that sharp, earthy bitterness she’d never fully grown used to. She exhaled slowly, pretending it didn’t sting.
Keegan watched her from the corner of his eye.
Not laughing.
Not sighing.
Just… observing.
And that, somehow, was worse.
She stood beside him in the cool forest shade, the war distant but always present, the base humming quietly behind them. Smoke drifted between them like a thin veil.
And still, he hadn’t said a single thing.
Y/n stood beside him in the quiet shade, smoke drifting slowly between them like mist caught in the branches. The base hummed faintly in the distance—heavy doors opening, muffled conversations, and a generator somewhere rumbling like a distant storm. Every sound felt sharper out here, more exposed.
Her mind, though, was caught in its own storm.
Say something. No, don’t. Ask him what’s wrong. No, he’ll shut you down. Apologize. For what? He snapped at you. But maybe you did something— No. Stop.
She took a shaky breath and stared at the cigarette between her fingers. The ember glowed faintly in the dim light. She knew she was wasting it—everyone could see it. Even Keegan, watching her from the corner of his eye, his posture still and unreadable, probably guessed she was barely smoking at all.
Every few seconds she brought it near her lips, then stopped.
Then tried again.
Then hesitated.
Her mind refusing to cooperate with her mouth.
The quiet between them stretched longer and longer.
The metal door on the bunker wall swung open with a sharp clank. A group of soldiers—three men and two women—filed out, laughing among themselves as they fished out cigarettes and lighters. Their voices were loud in the cool evening air, boots crunching over the gravel and pine needles.
They lit up fast and practiced. Drag. Exhale. Talk. Laugh. Drag again.
Y/n’s face warmed in embarrassment. They were smoking casually, confidently, like it was second nature. She was standing there like she’d never seen a cigarette before—barely inhaling, barely speaking, too aware of herself.
A tiny, invisible pressure pushed on her chest—the urge to prove she wasn’t an idiot. She took a quicker drag to match their pace.
Too quick.
Too deep.
Immediately the smoke scorched down her throat like fire.
Y/n’s eyes watered. She doubled over, coughing violently, the cigarette almost slipping from her hand.
Keegan reacted instantly.
He lowered his own cigarette from his mouth, blew out smoke away from her face, and stepped closer. Without a word, he put a steady hand on her back, patting once—firm but careful.
“Easy,” he muttered, voice low.
Her lungs burned. She tried to catch her breath, coughing again and gagging on the harsh taste.
Keegan plucked the cigarette from her fingers with two gloved fingers, then guided her backward until her shoulders bumped gently against the rough bark of the tree. She let herself lean into it, inhaling fresh air in desperate gulps.
He didn’t crowd her. Didn’t hover. Just stayed close enough to make sure she didn’t drop.
She said nothing. The embarrassment was crawling up her throat now, replacing the smoke.
Keegan watched her, expression hidden but eyes sharp. He waited—patient, unusually patient—until her breathing evened out.
Only then did he hold the cigarette back out to her, offering it silently.
She hesitated, torn between taking it back or calling it quits.
But Keegan finally broke the silence, his voice roughened from smoke but steady.
“How often you smoke, sweetheart?”
He didn’t ask it like an accusation. Or like he was mocking her. Just… asking. Calm. Curious. A quiet question in the shade of the trees.
And for the first time since finding him out here, she felt her heartbeat slow.
He was talking again.
Really talking.
And he sounded like the Keegan she knew.
Y/n managed to steady her breathing, leaning lightly against the tree as the last burn faded from her throat. She held the cigarette loosely now, unsure if she even wanted it anymore.
“I don’t… do it often,” she said finally. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “Just sometimes.”
She didn’t add only with you or because Ryder taught me so I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of you.
Some things felt too naked to say aloud.
Keegan hummed, low in his chest—a sound of acknowledgment, not approval. He reached out, plucking the cigarette from her fingers once more. His own had burned down to the filter; he dropped it and crushed it under his boot with a deliberate twist.
Then he lifted her cigarette to his lips and took a casual drag—claiming it without a word.
“Yeah,” he murmured, smoke curling from his mouth. “Figured you weren’t exactly a regular, sweetheart.”
Y/n glanced at the ground, feeling strangely young under that quiet observation.
Keegan’s voice softened—not warm exactly, but gentler than before. “Listen… I don’t think you should. You’re young. Pretty. Got a full set of working lungs. No reason to wreck ’em with this shit.”
Her stomach fluttered at the unexpected compliment, even though it had been slipped in with the subtlety of a man who pretended he didn’t mean it.
She didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on the earth at her boots. Pine needles. A cigarette butt. The dark toes of Keegan’s boots beside hers.
His eyes stayed on her for a beat longer before he took another slow drag, exhaled up toward the canopy, and asked. “So… why’re you out here?”
Y/n lifted her head a little. “I was… looking for you.”
One of his eyebrows rose beneath the shadow of the mask. He didn’t speak—just made a small gesture with his shoulders, a silent Go on.
She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of how quiet the forest had become. “You seemed off,” she said. “Earlier. I… wanted to see what was wrong. Were you mad at me? Did something happen? Did someone piss you off?” She swallowed. “You’ve never snapped at me before.”
Keegan didn’t look away this time. He watched her with that steady scout-sniper focus, the kind that made people squirm because it was impossible to hide under it.
He hummed again and took another drag—longer this time. When he exhaled, he tipped his head back against the tree trunk, the fading light revealng the dark stubble across his jaw and neck.
He was overdue for a shave. Maybe two days. Regulations would be on him soon.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly. “Just thinking about stuff, sweetheart.”
Y/n raised an eyebrow of her own—clearly not buying it.
Keegan saw it. A small smirk ghosted his face, faint but real.
He exhaled slower this time, like the words were reluctant to follow. “I just…” His throat bobbed. “Wish I got to talk to you longer. Spend more time with you.”
Y/n blinked.
The forest held still.
Even the distant noise from the base seemed to fade.
She pieced it together slowly, the realization settling warm and soft in her chest.
“…Are you jealous?” she asked gently. “Of me hanging out with Ryder so much?”
Keegan’s jaw tightened. He looked down, then aside. Silence stretched.
And then, without looking at her, he gave the smallest nod.
Not big enough to be dramatic.
Just enough to tell the truth.
Y/n hummed, the sound thoughtful—not mocking, not judging. She looked at him with a new understanding, smoke curling lazily between them.
The night felt different suddenly—colder around the edges, warmer in the space between them.
Y/n shifted her boots against the pine needles, suddenly aware of herself in a way she didn’t like. Her face felt warm—too warm—and she ducked her head, hoping the fading light would hide the color rising in her cheeks.
Keegan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He noticed everything.
A quiet chuckle rumbled from him, subtle and short. He wasn’t laughing at her—more like he found her reaction… endearing. His gaze drifted off toward the treeline again, like giving her space he knew she needed.
He liked her.
That much was clear now—even if he wasn’t saying it, even if he held it close, tucked somewhere behind that cold, steady exterior he wore like armor. If someone asked him, he wouldn’t flinch at calling her his girl.
But he wasn’t about to say that out loud.
Not yet.
Not here.
Y/n looked away, fighting the small, spiraling thoughts in her mind. She had always liked him—quietly, patiently, never pushing. She never chased him like others did. She accepted being just his friend. Most days, that was enough.
But when other women talked to him—even if it was rare—she felt that sharp little twist in her chest. The one she pretended she didn’t notice.
She cleared her throat.
“…Can I try smoking again?” she asked, voice careful.
“No.” Keegan didn’t even look at her when he said it. “Not from mine. Don’t think you should.”
Y/n smirked, leaning into the tease because it felt safer than the silence. “I could just get my own.”
Keegan finally glanced at her, eyes narrowing beneath the edge of his mask in amused warning
“And I’d just take ’em from you.”
She scoffed. “Oh, really?”
He pushed off the tree and stood to his full height, towering over her—broad shoulders, steady posture, and calm authority radiating even in the soft evening light.
“Really.”
Y/n felt her heartbeat skip, then looked away again, trying to regain composure.
Keegan tilted his head. “Where’d you even get that pack you gave me anyway? Military only supplies one brand, and it sure as hell wasn’t that.”
Her stomach dropped.
The heat rushed to her face again. She looked away, hoping he wouldn’t push.
He didn’t wait.
A gloved hand gently but firmly caught her chin, directing her face back toward him.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low. “Where’d you get ’em?”
She swallowed, caught. “When I’m out on scouting or recon… sometimes I check abandoned houses. Just to see if there’s anything useful.”
His brow lifted.
“I have, um… a shoebox in my barracks full of cigarette packs.” She winced. “Some are full. Most aren’t.”
Keegan shook his head, but his mouth curved into a grin she rarely saw. “You should give ’em all to me.”
Y/n snorted, recovering some of her nerve. “No way. I use them to bribe people for things.”
That earned a real, quiet laugh from him. “I might have to confiscate ’em then.”
She stared up at him. Then sighed dramatically. “Fine. You can have them.”
Keegan’s hand slid from her chin to the small of her back—warm, steady, unexpected.
“No,” he said, stepping a little closer. “You keep ’em. I’m kidding.”
Her breath hitched slightly. His hand stayed exactly where it was, grounding her, sending warmth through her uniform.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The forest around them was still—only the distant rumble of the base and the faint buzz of insects in the trees.
Then Keegan looked down at her.
“What’re you doing tonight?”
Y/n blinked. “It is tonight. We’re past dinner.”
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion easy. “I know you stay up late.”
She rolled her eyes with a soft smile. “Not really doing anything.”
Silence followed—but not the heavy kind from earlier. This one felt slow, thoughtful.
Keegan shifted the cigarette between his fingers, then finally said, “You wanna come to my barracks? Play some cards?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Cards?”
“Some of the guys’ll be there,” he added quickly, almost apologizing. “Sorry. Can’t kick ’em out.”
“It’s fine,” she said softly. “I’d… like that.”
Keegan couldn’t hide the smile this time. It spread slowly, pulling at the corner of his mouth before he tugged his mask down over it, as if covering it up before she could tease him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, guiding her with a hand at her lower back as they headed toward the bunker door. “Let’s get inside before someone thinks we died out here.”
The metal door hissed open, warm bunker air brushing against their faces as he led her in.
For once, Keegan didn’t walk ahead of her.
He stayed right beside her.
Keegan kept his hand at the small of Y/n’s back as they walked through the bunker’s dim hallways. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, flickering here and there as the ventilation system hummed behind the walls. The deeper they went, the warmer the air grew from body heat, machinery, and too many tired soldiers moving through the narrow corridors.
Their footsteps echoed on the solid concrete floor, blending with distant radios crackling, equipment clattering, and someone laughing two hallways over. The base never truly slept.
Keegan didn’t talk much on the walk—not unusual. But this silence felt different. Comfortable. Intentional. Like he was keeping himself beside her on purpose, not out of coincidence or habit.
When they reached the Ghosts’ barracks room, Keegan punched in the door code and stepped inside first, holding the heavy metal door open for her. Warm light spilled across the space, illuminating mismatched blankets, scattered boots, dog tags hanging from bunks, and the faint smell of coffee that had been brewed hours ago and abandoned.
Three guys sat on the floor around a low crate they’d turned into a makeshift table. Cards and a half-eaten bag of beef jerky lay in the center. Logan looked up first. His quiet eyes softened in recognition.
Keegan gestured with a nod. “You know Logan.”
Logan gave her the faintest smile before returning his attention to the cards.
Keegan pointed to the others. “That’s Kick and Neptune. Ghost team. Good guys.”
Kick saluted her with two fingers. Neptune offered a chin lift.
Y/n opened her mouth to greet them—
Then froze.
Ryder.
She was supposed to meet Ryder outside.
Her stomach dipped. She pulled her phone from her back pocket and typed quickly.
Hey, plans changed. Something came up. I’m really sorry. Raincheck?
His reply came almost instantly.
All good. I’m just gonna read. Text me if you need something.
Another message buzzed through before she could lock her phone.
Don’t get in trouble 😉
She slipped the phone back into her pocket, ignoring the ding that followed.
Keegan noticed but didn’t comment. Instead, he grabbed a folded blanket from his bunk and spread it across the floor beside him, glancing at her as he straightened the fabric.
“Sit,” he said simply.
Y/n smirked. “You trying to make this comfortable?”
“Trying,” he replied, deadpan.
“It’s the floor, Keegs. Nothing’s saving that.”
He gave a low hum but didn’t argue. She sat beside him anyway.
They started a round of poker—cards slapping softly against the crate, chips clicking, laughter breaking out when Kick bluff-called Neptune and lost miserably.
When it came time to bet, everyone tossed in something—gum, a protein bar, a half-full can of energy drink, someone’s last packet of M&Ms.
Y/n hesitated, looking around for something of hers she could offer—
Keegan’s arm came up in front of her, subtle but protective.
“She’s with me,” he said, tone final. “We’re teaming.”
He slid a pack of gum onto the crate.
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Gambling gum?”
He shrugged. “Better than betting your dog tags.”
The guys laughed.
As the game went on, Y/n found her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. The warmth of the room, the low hum of conversation, the comfortable closeness of Keegan beside her—it all blended into something soothing. Her head dipped once, then again.
Then it fully dropped—right onto Keegan’s thigh.
He stiffened just for a heartbeat.
Then relaxed.
Kick snorted. “Damn, Russ. Out cold.”
Neptune laughed quietly. “Guess you wore her out already.”
Keegan shot him a look that shut the entire comment down instantly. No one joked after that.
They finished the hand. Keegan won—of course he did—and the guys began gathering their things, trading muted goodnights as they drifted to their bunks.
When the room finally quieted, Keegan glanced down at the sleeping girl sprawled across his lap. Her hand was curled loosely around the hem of his sleeve, like she’d done it unconsciously.
He let out a breath—slow, soft, almost fond.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured.
Carefully, as if she were made of something that might break, Keegan slid an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back. She barely stirred as he lifted her, head falling gently against his chest.
The overhead lights dimmed as he moved through the barracks toward his bunk. He didn’t even consider carrying her through multiple halls to the women’s barracks—not after curfew, not with restrictions, not when she looked so peacefully asleep.
He lowered her onto his bed—his actual bed—and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. She shifted slightly, relaxing into the pillow with a small sigh.
Keegan hesitated only a moment before lying beside her on top of the covers, turning onto his side so he faced her. The barracks were nearly silent now, save for distant footsteps and the soft hum of the ventilation system.
He watched her breathe for a minute, something unspoken softening the sharp line of his expression.
Then he finally let himself close his eyes.
Sleep pulled him under fast.
For the first time in a long while…
He slept easy.
Logan's Camp Nurse
Canvas walls rattled softly with every gust blowing against the field hospital, the fabric snapping like distant gunfire. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sweat, and sand—every cot filled, every curtain pulled tight for a sliver of privacy. Voices murmured around them: medics giving orders, soldiers groaning, and boots rushing across canvas flooring.
Y/n slipped through the curtain around cot 14, already bracing herself.
Logan Walker sat half-upright on the bed, jaw clenched, trying—and failing—to look relaxed. His broad frame looked wrong without his gear, reduced to a gray T-shirt soaked through at the collar. His face tightened when he tried to adjust himself, but when he noticed her, he forced a tired grin.
“Hey, nurse.” His voice was hoarse, the greeting edged with pain he didn’t want her to notice.
She exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before reaching for the clipboard. “What did you do this time, Walker?”
“Banged up my shoulder,” he answered, keeping his good hand planted on the mattress for balance. The injured arm hung just a little too still.
Y/n arched an eyebrow. “You dislocated your shoulder,” she corrected, skimming the chart. “Again.”
Logan winced and reached for the water cup with his right hand, taking a slow sip so she wouldn’t see his hand trembling. “Yeah… I can feel it.”
“Why didn’t the field medic fix it?” she asked, already stepping closer to examine the joint.
“He was busy? I don’t know.” He tried to shrug. Bad idea. His breath hitched, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek like that would hide anything.
She gave him a look that said you’re not fooling anyone. Logan looked away, pretending to study the tent ceiling.
“You’re lucky,” Y/n murmured, her fingers gently probing along the dislocated joint. “The doctor says it’s a minor one.”
“That’s good.” His words were too clipped. His eyelashes fluttered with every touch, and he swallowed hard, trying to sit like a man who wasn’t just white-knuckling the edge of the bed.
“You’ll be in a sling for a full week,” she continued. “Then you come back and the doctor decides if you’re cleared.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Can’t we cut that time shorter?”
Y/n paused, narrowing her eyes. “You really that desperate to get back out there?”
He opened his mouth. “Well, my bro—AH!” His entire body jerked as she pushed his shoulder back into place with practiced force.
The pop was unmistakable.
He glared at her through watering eyes, breathing hard. “You could’ve warned me.”
Y/n hid her grin behind the clipboard. “I only warn babies.”
He tried rotating the shoulder—another mistake. Pain flashed across his face, raw and honest this time.
“Stop moving before you make it worse,” she scolded lightly, tapping his shin with two fingers. “You’re lucky I fixed it before you tore something.”
Logan muttered something under his breath and slumped back against the pillows.
“So,” she added casually, “your brother what?”
He blinked, then let out a long, slow breath. “He’s out there. I don’t want him fighting alone.”
Y/n couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at her lips. “That’s sweet of you, Logan.”
“It’s not sweet,” he grumbled. “It’s… family.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” She reached for the sling on the bedside table and unfolded it. “Arm up.”
He obeyed reluctantly, watching her hands as she secured the straps around his neck and ribs. His voice softened. “Come on, Y/n… for me? Just a shorter time in the sling?”
“Nope,” she said immediately, tightening the final strap. “Your shoulder needs to heal, and it doesn’t do that while you’re off chasing Federation soldiers.”
He tilted his head at her, a small smirk forming. “But you would let me out early… if you could.”
Y/n stepped back, meeting his eyes for only a second. “Maybe.”
She winked, then swept the curtain aside to check on her next patient—leaving Logan staring after her, a little dazed, a little annoyed, and absolutely smitten.
*****
The mess tent buzzed with the familiar evening chaos—soldiers shuffling in and out, trays clattering, the low drone of generators outside mixing with chatter and the sharp scent of burned coffee. Y/n sat alone at a corner table, rolling her stiff shoulders after a long shift. Her plate sat empty; ration shortages meant the nursing staff got the scraps once the troops were fed.
“Hey, nurse.”
She didn’t need to see him to know the voice—warm, teasing, a little too pleased with itself. She glanced over her shoulder and found Logan Walker standing behind her, a food tray in one hand and his other arm still tucked neatly into a sling.
He gave a crooked smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“Hi,” she answered softly, watching as he slid onto the bench beside her. He set his tray down carefully so he didn’t jostle his injured shoulder. “You aren’t sitting with your friends tonight?”
“They shipped out on a mission,” Logan said. The casual tone didn’t hide the worry flickering behind his eyes—it was always there when Hesh wasn’t within arm’s reach. He picked up his fork and began cutting his chicken breast into two equal halves, pushing one to the edge of the plate as if he planned it that way all along.
“Oh…” Y/n said, glancing down at her own empty plate.
Without hesitation, Logan slid half his chicken onto hers.
“Logan!” Her voice pitched upward, scandalized, and she looked around like MPs were about to descend on them. “You can’t do that!”
“Yes, I can,” he said simply, nudging the plate back toward her when she tried pushing it away. “Medical staff barely get any protein in camp rations. You guys need it more than anyone.”
“But you get it for a reason,” she argued. “You need protein to heal your shoul—mmph!”
Logan gently—but firmly—shoved a chunk of chicken into her mouth.
He sat back, grinning like he’d just won a battle. A warm laugh escaped him when she glared at him around the food, cheeks puffed in indignation.
“You can’t just shove food in people’s mouths, Logan!” she said once she swallowed, pointing her fork at him like it was a weapon.
He lifted his hands innocently—well, hand. The one he could use. Then, before she could stop him, he speared another piece of chicken… and popped that one into his own mouth, chewing smugly.
Only then did Y/n cautiously inch forward again.
“I can,” Logan said after he swallowed. “I did. And I definitely will again if you keep trying to give it back.” His smile softened. “Eat it. It’s good.”
Y/n let out a breath but cut a piece of chicken with the edge of her fork, mimicking the way he had done it. She took a bite. “…It’s not that bad.”
“See?” Logan nudged her gently with his good elbow. “Told you.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the ghost of a smile.
“What are you up to tonight?” Logan asked, still eating but slower now, clearly more interested in her answer than the food. “Off shift?”
“No night shift,” she confirmed, leaning back. “I’m… not sure what I’ll do.”
“You should go for a walk with me,” he said casually—too casually.
Her brow arched. “You want me to go for a walk with you tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Around a military camp.”
“Mhmm.” He stabbed another piece of chicken.
“In an area where the Federation sometimes sends small raiding parties to pick off people walking alone?”
“We’ll be fine,” he promised, like he was discussing weather. “I can handle them.”
She stared pointedly at the sling. “Right. You and your slung arm can take on a Federation ambush.”
Logan leaned back, smirking. “It’ll be perfectly safe. And fun. Promise.”
Y/n sighed, her fork clinking softly against the empty plate Logan had insisted on filling for her. She looked at him—really looked—and saw that spark he always got when he wanted company but didn’t know how to say it plainly.
“…Okay,” she said finally.
His grin lit up the whole side of the tent.
Canvas walls flapped softly in the cooling evening wind as soldiers drifted between tents, some heading to night duty, others lingering with mugs of weak coffee. The camp smelled of dust, fuel, and whatever the mess hall had tried to pass off as dinner. Lanterns hanging from guide ropes cast warm pools of light across the packed dirt.
Logan rose from the table and—unexpectedly—held out his hand like he belonged in another century. His posture was casual, but his eyes were hopeful.
Y/n stared at the offered hand, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”
He only shrugged, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.
She rolled her eyes but placed her hand in his anyway, letting him pull her to her feet. His grip was warm and steady, even with his arm still bound in the sling. When she was up, he didn’t let go. Instead, he laced their fingers loosely and guided her out of the mess tent, weaving between clusters of soldiers and stacks of supply crates.
The camp felt calmer in the evening—quieter conversations, distant clanking of maintenance crews, a dog barking somewhere near the motor pool. Logan slowed his pace to match hers.
“You should be a field nurse,” he said suddenly, glancing sideways at her.
“A field nurse?” she echoed. “Why’s that?”
“Well… you’ve got all the qualifications,” Logan replied, ducking his head beneath a rope strung between tents—a makeshift clothesline with damp uniforms swaying in the wind.
“And how do you know what qualifications I have?” Y/n stepped under the rope behind him, eyes narrowing.
Logan’s smile froze. Guilt washed across his face like someone had flipped a switch. “Oh… uh…”
“Logan.” She stopped walking. “How did you know that?”
“Hesh looked at your files,” he muttered.
“And why did he do that?” Her tone told him she already knew the answer.
Logan didn’t drop her hand; he just squeezed it gently. “I asked him to.”
Y/n shook her head, but her lips twitched upward despite herself. “As one does, I guess.”
He brightened, relieved she wasn’t mad. “You’d get higher pay than working camp shifts, you know.”
“Because I’d be more likely to get my head blown off,” she countered. “I happen to enjoy keeping all my limbs where they belong.”
“I’d keep an eye on you,” Logan said easily. “Keep you safe.”
“Oh would you now?” she teased.
“Yep. I’d take out any Federation soldier who even thinks about pointing a gun at you.”
“My hero,” Y/n said dramatically, nudging him.
“Only for you,” he answered, stepping over a rock on the path.
Y/n didn’t bother stepping over it—she stomped on it and hopped off, watching a trio of hares dart into tall grass. Logan laughed under his breath at the contrast.
“Even with a busted shoulder?” she added.
“Especially with a busted shoulder,” he said with a proud grin.
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. Logan didn’t talk nearly as much as Hesh, but when he did—when he was comfortable—he had a quiet charisma that drew people in. Around Y/n, the words came easily, like he didn’t need to think too hard.
She swung their joined hands back and forth, a small playful motion. Logan looked down at her, eyes soft, memorizing every line of her face in the lantern light.
“Also,” he added, “you’d get to see me more if you were a field nurse. Ghost Team doesn’t have one.”
“Maybe they don’t want one,” Y/n suggested.
“Maybe…” Logan admitted, “but I think we need one. And you’d be a good fit.”
“Really now?” she said, amused. “How so?”
He inhaled like he was collecting his thoughts. “Well… for starters, you’re qualified. Nursing-wise and soldier-wise. You used to be infantry before nursing, right?”
“I was a Ranger,” she hummed, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter into the grass.
Logan nodded. “See? That’s half the job. And you’re smart. Friendly. You don’t like the Federation.”
Y/n snorted. “I don’t think anyone likes the Federation. I wouldn’t call that a qualification.”
“Still counts.” He looked down briefly, then back at her. His cheeks flushed slightly. “And you’re pretty.”
She froze for half a second, then ducked her head so he wouldn’t catch her smile. “Well… if you can convince Merrick and Elias you need a medic…” She nudged him with her shoulder. “I’ll put my name in the list of candidates.”
Logan’s entire expression lit up like she’d handed him a victory. “You better. Otherwise, I might… accidentally put your name in anyway.”
She laughed, shaking her head as he squeezed her hand again—gentle, warm, certain.
The lights of the camp faded behind them as they followed the narrow dirt trail stretching into the scrubland. It looked like it once belonged to old ATVs or farm trucks—two faint tire grooves with overgrown weeds climbing up the center. Rocks of all sizes littered the path, glinting in the moonlight. Y/n had to resist the childish urge to climb the bigger ones just to jump off and feel that quick, wild jolt in her stomach.
Adrenaline always did call to her.
The thought alone would probably be enough for Logan to write it onto his growing list of reasons she should join the Ghosts as a field medic.
The evening was cool, the air carrying dust and the faint smell of diesel from camp. Grass rustled softly around them, stirred by the wind. Just beyond the reach of their footsteps, the world felt quieter—empty but watchful.
Y/n’s thoughts drifted to the team Logan kept talking about.
Hesh liked her—maybe too much, always grinning whenever Logan’s attention lingered her way.
Elias had been surprisingly warm for a commander, offering her steady nods of approval whenever she worked on one of his men.
Keegan… well, Keegan was Keegan. Silent, unreadable, always lurking with eyes that seemed to register everything and comment on nothing.
And Merrick—intimidating at first glance, but fair in a way that felt razor sharp. If he liked you, you were protected. If he didn’t… well, best not to be in that position.
A long, lonely howl broke across the landscape. A single animal—probably a coyote—echoing into the twilight.
If it had been a stray dog, someone from camp would already be hollering its name like a curse thrown into the wind.
But the wilderness around them stayed quiet.
Logan glanced at her. “Do you have a day off anytime soon?”
Y/n snorted, shaking her head. “Not out here. On base, sure. But in camps? Not a chance. When we aren’t treating patients, we’re cleaning supplies or prepping kits. Which… you know, is basically all the time.”
Logan squeezed her hand gently, watching her kick another rock off the path. “Busy, busy woman.”
“Please,” she teased, bumping her shoulder against his good arm. “You’re just as bad when you’re not getting patched up from stupid accidents.”
“Hey,” Logan shot back, pointing at his sling with a dramatic sigh. “This was Keegan’s driving, thank you very much.”
“Oh? Finally telling me what really happened?” Y/n laughed. “Let me guess—he took a corner too fast?”
“Took? He dives around corners,” Logan grumbled. “Any chance that man gets, he steals the driver’s seat. Dad and Merrick don’t stop him. They say it’s only crazy because we’re getting shot at every time he’s behind the wheel.”
Y/n laughed again, the sound light and carrying on the wind. “Then maybe you should grab the driver’s seat before he does.”
“I’ll work on it,” Logan said, sounding personally offended but also amused.
Something small fluttered near them. Y/n caught the movement from the corner of her eye and halted, scanning the grass.
“What is it?” Logan immediately stepped closer, his posture tightening—protective instinct flaring before he could think.
“Just a bird,” she said softly. She waited a moment but saw nothing else. “It’s gone.”
Logan didn’t move right away. His gaze swept the surrounding grass, shoulders squared, feet shifting subtly into a more defensive stance. Only when he was satisfied did he continue walking beside her.
Ahead, a huge boulder rose out of the earth like it had been punched up from underground—weathered, jagged, almost the size of a small car. Y/n let go of his hand and climbed onto a flattish ledge, the stone cool beneath her palms. Sitting there put her eye level with Logan, even though he remained standing.
He looked up at her, moonlight catching the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—warm, relieved, and just a little bit in awe.
The wind picked up around them, brushing through the tall grass that bordered the old trail like waves rolling against the shore. The camp’s lantern lights were distant now—soft glimmers swallowed by dusk—leaving just the moon, the quiet, and the uneven shadows cast by the enormous boulder Y/n sat upon. Logan stood between her knees, close enough that she could see the small flecks of gold in his brown eyes when the moonlight hit them.
“I mean it when I say it, Y/n.” Logan’s voice was low, warm, and tinged with a shy confidence he didn’t often show. “You are a pretty woman.”
He chuckled softly as he stepped closer, the toes of his boots scuffing lightly against the gravel. His good hand settled gently on her knee, thumb brushing once, almost absentmindedly—as if touching her grounded him. The warmth of his palm bled through the fabric of her uniform pants.
Y/n’s breath stalled in her chest.
Her face heated in a way she couldn’t stop, and Logan’s smirk widened when she turned her head just enough to hide the smile betraying her composure.
“Oh… you be quiet,” she muttered, but there was no heat behind it. Only playful embarrassment.
“You want me to be quiet?” Logan huffed a small laugh. “Normally, I’m told that’s all I am.”
“You’re better than Keegan,” Y/n shot back lightly.
Logan let out a bark of laughter—sharp, bright, and genuine. “Yeah, well, that bar is underground. I only ever heard him say ‘thank you when I first hung around,’ but he talks more if you’re around him long enough. Another reason you should be a field medic. You’d be around him more. Maybe you could medically order him to stop driving. It’s… a hazard to humanity.”
“I’ve never experienced his driving, so I can’t confirm that.”
“My word isn’t good enough?” he teased.
“No, no, it is,” Y/n assured him. “But I’d still rather experience it myself.”
Logan shook his head emphatically. “Don’t wish for what you don’t want. I swear he’s killed people by running them over. I’ve seen him run people over. Like… on purpose.”
“Maybe you should take notes then,” Y/n laughed. “Become his protégé.”
He shook his head with a grin, leaning in slightly. “I’m not sniper material. But hell, I’ll learn what I can from him.”
“Good,” she said, smiling.
A gust of wind swept past them, lifting a strand of her hair and slapping it against her cheek. Y/n tried to blow it away—once, twice, three times—but it clung stubbornly to her skin. Logan watched her attempts with an amused, fond expression.
She ducked her head, deciding she’d rather die than use her hands after committing to her ridiculous strategy.
Logan’s eyebrow arched—curious, entertained, charmed. “Need help?”
“No,” she muttered, trying again.
The hair stuck.
“Yeah, you do.” His voice softened.
Logan lifted his hand from her knee and reached toward her slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t. His fingertips brushed her cheek, feather-light, chasing the stray strand until he tucked it gently behind her ear. His hand lingered there a moment, warm against her skin.
Before she could speak, Logan leaned in, lowering his forehead until it rested against hers. The contact was soft—but intimate in a way that made her breath catch. Their noses almost touched. She felt the heat of him, the faint rasp of his breath against her lips, the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Y/n…” His voice dropped to a whisper—gentle, secretive, like the night itself shouldn’t overhear. “You are pretty. And I do like you.”
Her heart thudded hard—once, twice—so loud she worried he could hear it. “I know, Logan,” she whispered back. “You say it a lot.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his forehead still pressed to hers. “And you like me back.”
Her lips tilted upward. She couldn’t hide it. She didn’t want to. “Yes,” she breathed. “I do like you back, Logan.”
He closed his eyes for a brief second—relief, happiness, and something deeper flashing across his face. When he opened them again, they were soft but determined.
“Good,” he whispered. “Then it means I can do this.”
He leaned in carefully—slowly enough that she could pull away, but she didn’t. His hand slid to the back of her head, guiding her gently toward him. His lips brushed hers once—just a whisper of contact, testing, ensuring she wanted it too.
She did.
He kissed her softly at first, his lips warm and tender against hers, like he was afraid of hurting her or crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. His good arm drew her closer, palm cradling the back of her head with surprising gentleness for a man who had spent his adulthood in combat.
Y/n kissed him back, hands finding the fabric of his uniform shirt and bunching lightly. The world seemed to narrow around them—no distant soldiers talking, no hum of generators, no war burning just beyond the horizon. Just the two of them, breath mingling, closeness tightening like a silken thread drawn taut between their hearts.
Logan kissed her deeper—still slow, still careful, but with a quiet intensity that told her this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment impulse. He had wanted this. Thought about it. Maybe for longer than he would ever admit.
When they finally parted, Logan didn’t pull away far. His nose brushed hers. His thumb traced a slow arc across her cheek.
“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.
Y/n let out a small, breathless laugh. “I could tell.”
He smiled—soft, boyish, and absolutely smitten.
And he stayed close, forehead against hers once more, as if letting go too quickly would break something sacred between them.
The warmth of Logan’s lips still lingered on Y/n’s, a soft echo pulsing through her chest. The night felt different now—charged, humming, almost tender. The air smelled of dust and dry grass, the wind carrying faint voices from distant patrols.
“That was nice,” Logan whispered, his forehead still almost touching hers.
“I-It was,” Y/n breathed, her face burning, happiness curling at the corners of her smile.
Logan drew back just enough to look down at her properly. “If I could use both arms, I’d carry you back to camp right now.”
Her head jerked up. “Oh?” she asked, half teasing, half startled. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said with an earnestness that made her stomach flip. “Carry you right to my tent. And since the guys are all gone, I’d—”
“Logan Walker, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
Y/n slapped a hand over his mouth before he could say another word.
His eyes sparkled with pure mischief—the kind that made it painfully obvious he absolutely meant whatever she thought he was going to say. Her face flushed even deeper, and that only made his smug amusement grow.
She lowered her hand, and Logan immediately broke into laughter—quiet snorts at first, then full amusement rolling out of him.
“What?” he grinned. “You don’t want that?”
“Not—! Not in a camp! Around other people!” she sputtered, mortified. “That’s just—no! Absolutely not!”
Logan doubled over slightly, laughing harder. “Bet I could still pick you up with one arm anyway.”
“I doubt it.”
The second she saw him inhale to protest, she cut him off sharply.
“And don’t you dare try it. I’m not patching you up if you tear something.”
“You would,” he shot back with a lopsided grin.
“Don’t test it.”
Before he could reply, Y/n slipped off the boulder, landing lightly in front of him—so close their chests nearly brushed if not for the sling between them.
Then she rose onto her tiptoes and kissed him.
Logan froze for a heartbeat—surprised, breath catching—then kissed her back with soft urgency, his good hand sliding instinctively to her hip to steady her. When she settled back onto her heels, he looked dazed, almost boyish.
And before he could recover, she winked and skipped ahead on the path.
“H-Hey! Wait up, nurse!”
Logan jogged after her, careful not to jostle his injured shoulder. His steps caught up with hers quickly, and he slid his fingers through hers again like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Y/n shook her head with a shy smile. “You really are something, Logan.”
“So are you,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.
He hesitated a moment before adding, “You know… you can sleep in my tent tonight if you want. The others are out on that mission. They’ll be gone a while—probably all week.”
Y/n quirked an eyebrow. “And no funny business?”
Logan rolled his eyes dramatically. “There will be no fooling around.”
A beat—then a crooked smirk.
“Unless you want to.”
She snorted. “Nice try.”
“Had to shoot my shot,” he said, bumping her gently with his elbow.
They continued toward camp, the lamplight slowly growing brighter. Soldiers on perimeter duty stood in pairs along the ridge, silhouetted rifles slung across their chests. Logan nodded to a few of them as they passed; Y/n did too, though more subtly. The air grew louder—generators humming, boots scraping gravel, faint laughter drifting from one of the inner tents.
Logan escorted her all the way to the nurses’ tent—a long, canvas structure with two lanterns glowing faintly at its entrance.
He paused, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “So… you gonna come spend the night?”
Y/n sighed gently and touched his good arm. “People will talk, Logan. And think things. And I don’t need a bad reputation following me around.”
“Ah.”
The disappointment in his voice was quiet, almost hidden—but not from her. Logan tried to shrug it off. “Well… tomorrow night, then. And I’ll punch anyone who talks bad about you.”
“Oh, Logan.”
Y/n laughed softly, looking around to make sure no one was watching.
No one was.
She leaned up and kissed his cheek—a quick, soft press that left him blinking like she’d short-circuited something important in his brain.
“See you tomorrow, Logan,” she whispered.
Before he could recover, she ducked inside the tent, leaving him standing under the lantern glow—heart racing, sling forgotten, and a stupidly lovesick smile spreading across his face.
*****
The medical tent was chaos.
Canvas walls snapped violently in the wind, rattling overhead like distant thunder while the smell of blood, antiseptic, and smoke hung thick in the air. Y/n stood frozen in the center of it all—gloved hands red, uniform stained, her breath coming out in uneven bursts. The world around her blurred as people rushed past, their voices overlapping and urgent.
“Scalpel!”
“Pressure! Keep pressure!”
“He’s coding again—get the paddles!”
“We’re losing him—we’re losing him!”
A soldier screamed from somewhere behind a curtain. Another medic cursed loudly. A doctor’s sleeves were soaked through to the elbows. The floor beneath Y/n’s boots was slick with spilled saline and smeared dirt tracked in from outside.
Her body shook.
She couldn’t move her hands. She couldn’t move her feet. She couldn’t do anything except watch the unfolding horror.
A nurse grabbed her shoulders—someone she knew, someone she worked beside every day—but the face blurred like a smear of paint. The woman pulled Y/n into a tight, grounding hug, but it didn’t help. Y/n couldn’t breathe. Her lungs clawed for air that refused to come.
Her ears rang as the heart monitor at the next cot let out its final, merciless beep—
Then silence.
Too much silence.
“Calling it,” the doctor said somewhere behind her. His voice was tired and broken. “Time of death—”
Y/n felt the nurse behind her stiffen. Felt the grip on her shoulders tighten.
Felt her own knees start to give.
“No…” she whispered, though she didn’t even know who she was pleading with.
The doctor peeled off his blood-soaked gloves and tossed them into the bin with a heavy thud. Nurses lowered their heads. Someone drew a sheet back.
Y/n turned—slowly, like her body weighed a hundred pounds.
The world narrowed to a single cot.
One soldier.
One man.
His body was still—too still. Someone had already closed his eyes. Dried blood streaked across his jawline and collar. His dog tags glinted faintly under the harsh lantern light, stained with red.
Logan Walker.
Her vision blurred. Her heart lurched violently, slamming against her ribs.
“No,” she choked out. “No, no—Logan—”
She stumbled toward the cot, legs barely holding her up. The nurse behind her reached out, trying to catch her, but Y/n dropped to her knees before the cot, her hands trembling violently. She forced herself to look at him, to touch his cold wrist, to search desperately for any flicker of life.
Nothing.
His chest didn’t rise.
His heartbeat wasn’t there.
His skin looked pale under the lamp’s yellow glow.
His sling was still around his shoulder—his stupid sling from that stupid injury he’d joked about hours ago.
Her breath shattered. A sound tore from her throat—raw, agonized, unrecognizable.
“Logan,” she whispered, the name cracking apart in her mouth. “Please—please don’t—Logan, please—”
She shook harder, shoulders trembling, breath hitching. Tears pooled so quickly they fell in hot streaks, splattering onto her gloves, the cot, the sheet half-covering his chest.
Her surroundings pressed in—crowded, dark, suffocating.
He had died in her care.
Because of her.
Because she wasn’t fast enough.
Because she missed something.
Because she—
Her world crashed, splintered, collapsed beneath her knees.
She reached out to touch his face—his cheek still streaked with dried blood—but her hand passed through—
“Y/n.”
The voice came from everywhere. From nowhere. Echoing strangely.
She gasped, jerking her hand back.
“Y/n, wake up.”
His voice?
No—no, it was someone else. But in the dream everything twisted, bending the world around her. The dead body on the cot suddenly looked pale and distorted—her eyes couldn’t focus on anything anymore.
“Y/n. Y/n, wake up!”
Y/n jolted upright with a strangled gasp, hands clutching at her sleeping bag as though she were still trying to reach for Logan. Her chest heaved, her eyes were wet, and her breath came too fast.
“Hey—hey, easy,” someone whispered, shaking her shoulders gently.
Her vision refocused on the dim interior of the nurses’ tent. Lantern light pooled softly in the center of the space, illuminating bedrolls and scattered personal gear. A few women slept peacefully. Others were half-sitting, watching her with worry.
The nurse beside her—the one who had woken her—had her hands on Y/n’s shoulders, expression soft but alarmed.
“Y/n, you okay?” she asked quietly.
Y/n opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was tight, raw from crying. She lifted a shaky hand and wiped at her face—her fingers came away damp. She’d been crying in her sleep. Hard.
“It… it was just a dream,” Y/n finally whispered, voice barely audible. “Just a dream.”
But her breathing was still rapid, her chest still constricted, and panic still clawing at her ribs. The sleeping bag suddenly felt like a trap—tight, constricting, suffocating. She struggled with the zipper, fingers slipping, growing more frantic.
“Hey—slow down, I’ve got it,” the other nurse murmured, gently guiding her hands away and undoing the zipper herself. Warm air immediately enveloped Y/n as the fabric loosened.
Y/n dragged herself free, pushing the bag aside like it was burning her skin. Her hands trembled as she reached blindly for her boots.
“Where are you going?” The other nurse whispered, worry deepening.
“I just—I need to walk,” Y/n said, tying her boots clumsily with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking.
She stumbled toward the tent flap, stomach tightening, heart hammering with the ghost of loss she could still feel strangling her chest.
The night outside was cold, but she didn’t hesitate—she needed air, needed space, needed movement before the nightmare swallowed her whole again.
She slipped out of the tent.
Y/n walked blindly through camp, boots dragging in the dirt, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. The cold night air stung her wet cheeks, but it didn’t slow the tears. Everything felt distant—the hum of generators, the soft murmur of late-night radio chatter, and the shuffle of patrolling soldiers. No one paid her any mind. No one saw the panic trembling through her limbs or the way her hands kept curling into fists, like she was trying to hold herself together.
She didn’t know how long she walked, only that her feet eventually stopped on their own. Her vision cleared just enough for her to realize where she was.
Logan’s tent.
The Ghosts’ sleeping quarters were quiet, dark, the flap closed and unmoving in the wind. She stared at the entrance, frozen. She could go inside—just slip in and wake him, see him breathing, alive, safe.
But he needed rest. His shoulder needed rest.
And barging into a soldier’s tent in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly something she should be doing.
Y/n forced herself to turn away.
It was just a dream.
Just a nightmare.
Logan’s fine.
He has to be fine.
She took one step away.
Then her breath hitched.
But what if the dream was telling her something? What if he wasn’t fine? What if something happened in the night and no one was there to help him?
Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs. Panic clawed its way up her throat.
Before she could stop herself, she slipped through the tent flap.
The interior was pitch black—no lanterns, no ambient light, only the faint shapes of sleeping bags and gear scattered across the floor. Logan had always preferred darkness; it helped him sleep. But right now it felt suffocating.
Y/n stepped forward, hands stretched in front of her. Something soft brushed her boot—a jacket, maybe.
“L-Logan?” she whispered, voice cracking. Anyone awake would have heard immediately that she’d been crying.
No answer.
The silence stabbed deeper.
Her panic spiked, breath quickening as her pulse rushed in her ears.
“Logan, are you awake?” She tried again, louder.
Still nothing.
Y/n took another hesitant step forward—and her toe caught on something solid. She pitched forward with a startled gasp, arms flailing too late to catch herself.
She crashed down hard onto—
“What the fuck…?” a groggy voice groaned under her.
Her breath stopped.
“…Logan?” she squeaked.
A lantern flicked on, its sudden brightness stabbing at her eyes. She blinked rapidly, vision swimming until the shape beneath her came into focus.
Logan.
Hair tousled, half asleep, sling askew, expression bewildered and already shifting to concern.
“Y/n?” He said, blinking at her, trying to wake fast. “What—?”
She stared at him stupidly, eyes red and shiny, her breathing shallow. Tears welled again before she could stop them.
Logan’s entire demeanor snapped from confused to alert in a heartbeat. He sat up fast, wincing as the movement tugged at his shoulder. His free hand clamped around his handgun on instinct.
“What happened? Is the Federation here?” His voice was low, serious, and urgent.
“N-No,” Y/n stuttered, scooting off him and sitting on her knees in the lantern’s glow.
Logan’s eyes scanned her face, his brow tightening as he took in her shaking hands, wet cheeks, and the way she kept trying—and failing—to breathe evenly.
“Hey—hey,” he murmured, setting the gun aside and reaching for her shoulder. His touch was warm and grounding. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Y/n, talk to me.”
“I…just a dream,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Just a nightmare. I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have woken you.”
Logan didn’t let her finish.
He caught her arm gently but firmly and tugged her down beside him onto his bedroll, ignoring her startled noise as she landed against him. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders, pulling her close until her cheek pressed against his chest. His chin rested lightly on top of her head.
“No,” he said softly. “No, you’re okay. You’re okay. Come here.”
He tried to open his sleeping bag one-handed, struggling with the zipper.
Y/n sniffed once, then let out a tiny, watery laugh despite herself.
She helped him with the zipper—not like she’d been trapped in hers not long ago.
Logan huffed out a relieved breath, pulled the bag open, and guided her inside with him, tugging her close with surprising gentleness. When he managed to zipper it shut again, she was tucked safely against him, her body finally starting to relax.
His fingers traced slow circles against her back.
“What happened?” He asked quietly—not demanding, not pushing, just offering.
Y/n shook her head against his chest. “Nothing…just…nothing.”
Logan didn’t push further. He knew better. Instead, he let out a soft sigh and pressed a small kiss into the top of her hair.
“Alright,” he murmured. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay? Just rest now.”
Y/n closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—gun oil, dust, and a hint of soap. His heartbeat thudded steadily under her ear.
Alive.
Warm.
Here.
Her shaking eased. Her tears slowed.
And with Logan’s arm wrapped protectively around her, rubbing slow, comforting lines along her spine, she finally managed to fall asleep again.
ough….. halovians who hide their embarrassment with their ear wings………..
robin is so subtle with it, you might not even notice at first. after all, her wings are constantly in motion, fluttering across the side of her face—they’re just another part of her image. she’s an expert at posing them in pictures, using them to frame her face, coyly half-hiding behind them… so when they fold over her cheeks, you might not even realise you’ve flustered her, until you see the blossoming pink through the gaps in the feathers, and that shy, lovesick smile...
but sunday… he’s hard to miss. it’s not the easiest thing to fluster him; in normal circumstances, he’s very good at maintaining his composure. but that just means when you do catch him off guard, the payoff is all the more rewarding. as soon as his face starts to heat up, he turns away from you, his wings nervously fluttering over his cheeks to shelter the growing blush. he can hardly string together a sentence, which only serves to fluster him further. honestly, what have you done to him.....
The front door opens with a small creak, the apartment eerily quiet as Simon stumbles trough it, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer following him — he really can’t wrap his head around why he accepted to go to the pub.
He’s had a few beers, just enough to blur the hard edges of the day, leaving him warm and needy, and as he reaches the bedroom he finds you in bed. You tried to wait for him, you really did, but he took so long and you ended up falling asleep, the show you were watching casting a soft light on your body.
He stands for a moment under the doorway, just to take you in, a fondness only reserved for you swimming in his eyes. You look so soft and inviting cuddled up to his pillow, and of all the crimes he’s guilty of, this is, without question, the worst one: leaving his sweet girl all by herself.
fanfiction is getting less interaction, people barely reblog anymore, role players are getting pushed out of fandom, ai generated slop winning art contests